“Yes, Floss. Muriel might think it was herself talking if she happened to hear you.” Gussie favored her room-mate with a condescending smile.
The three hurried along the street to the main campus gate. “Race you to the Hall,” challenged Gussie the instant they set foot on the snow-patched brown of the campus. A playful wind, not too penetrating, frolicked with them as they ran, blowing added bloom into their cheeks.
Aside from the one remark Flossie had made about Doris and Leslie Cairns nothing else had been said. As members of the new Travelers the Bertram girls were endeavoring to live up to one of the basic rules of their code; never to discuss anyone for the interest derived from the discussion. The discussion must come as necessary to the promotion of welfare.
“I hope Marjorie’s in.” Gussie was presently pounding vigorously on the door of 15, a chum at each elbow.
“Why not leave us the door?” blandly inquired Jerry as she opened it to the vociferous demand for admission. “Is it really you, Gentleman Gus? I haven’t seen you for as much as three hours. The last occasion was at lunch.” Jerry smirked soulfully at her callers.
“Where’s Marjorie?” Gussie peered over Jerry’s head and into the room. “We’ve a bit of special information. You’re privileged to hear it too, Jeremiah?”
“She has gone to Baretti’s. She was to meet Robin and go there. They had an appointment with Guiseppe. He wrote Marjorie one of his one-line funny little notes. I think he has news for Page and Dean.”
“Um-m.” Gussie looked undecided for a moment. “We’ll come back later.” She looked first at her chums for conformation, then at Jerry. “Let us know when she comes, Jerry. We love you dearly enough to hang around in your room till Marjorie comes, but there’s a time for study, et cetera. Only I don’t know when it will be if not now. You may pound on my door as hard as I pounded on yours, but no harder.”
“Suit yourself,” Jerry waved an affable hand. “I can live without you. I have a letter to write. I’d enjoy perfect quiet.”
The three sophomores went gaily down the hall. Jerry again shut herself in her room to write a letter which she had for some time been searching for an excuse to write. That very morning in the corridor of Hamilton Hall she had found it. It had come in the shape of a particularly sheer, dainty, hand-embroidered handkerchief, bearing the monogram L. M. W. Instantly her mind had began to canvass among the initials of her friends for L. M. W. Intending to place it in the students’ “Lost and Found,” after class Jerry had tucked it away in her hand bag and hurried to her recitation.